L'Espoir Faux
by Aprill May
Summary: [AU MS focus] It couldn't last forever. It's time to say goodbye. A question of what if [please read warning.]
1. Almost

**Warning**: If you are one of those "MS or bust" people then I seriously advise not reading this. This is nothing like anything else I've ever written, other than the fact that it is angst. Permanent angst. Sango and Miroku are breaking up, and they are breaking up good. There will be no happy ending. Yes, you read that right. There will be no happy ending. Any flames I receive on the subject of "omg you suck sango and miroku belong togetha!!!1one" will be used to keep myself warm in the freezing Canadian winter. Full explanations will be made at the end of the story. But if you _really_ want one now . . . well, being together is a choice, is it not? Humans make mistakes.

Love to Kat for reading this when she doesn't approve. Love ya.

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"You've been working so much. I miss you. "

He looked up at her, as if this news was completely new to him. "I didn't realize."

Dropping his briefcase beside the door, he moved closer to where she was standing in front of the counter, her hands clasped and fidgeting.

Smiling warmly, he crossed the space between them, pulling her face towards his and kissing her ever so softly, gently enough to make her forget. "I'm sorry," he murmured, reaching down and taking hold of one of her hands.

Pulling it upwards between them, he brought it to his lips and pressed his mouth upon her tingling skin. "Will you ever forgive me?"

And as those words left him in a soft tone, the entire situation became light and lifted from her mind, no longer a burden. She stared at his exaggerated "forgive me" face, his eyes twinkling.

She used to think they shone with vibrancy, life, the magic of their relationship. But somewhere down the path she tripped over an upturned root -- the satisfaction of a lie, believed.

"This weekend I don't have much to do. Why don't we go out? Or stay here? I don't mind, as long as we spend some time together." She offered him an optimistic smile.

Still, the unwavering faith remained. The part of her that trusted him, believed in him -- in them. The part of her captivated by his smile, entranced at his words. The part of her clinging to the way he made her feel.

He held a hand to his forehead, sighing. "You know what, I think I might be busy that day --"

"Miroku!" she exclaimed, frowning. "What about us? We've been so busy these days, but now we have a weekend free!"

He looked genuinely regretful. "I'll see what I can do, but I can't promise anything," he said, touching her cheek.

That part of her was undeterred in knowing that he'd realize the errors of his ways and return, fully, completely to her. For while there was the part that needed him, there was the part that screamed logic and practicality. And the two sides would argue, long into the night, late into the day.

Yet their bickering and bantering solved nothing. It only raised more questions. Questions that always stemmed from one.

"Forgive me," he said again. "We'll do something together soon, just not this weekend in particular. I promise."

"This time, I will," she said sternly, but in the end, it always turned out as a joke. "You'd better remember, you promised."

He drew a hand across his brow as if to wipe away sweat. "Soon, just me and you," he told her -- assured her -- and again, kissed her in that drugging, intoxicating way. "I miss you too."

"Miroku, I --"

He kissed her again, and again.

She had run out of things to say, except questions, accusations. So, she settled for enjoying his attentions, because she couldn't say anything. And she missed this; she really did. She missed what they were.

Sadly, the times that she believed him were the times that would return to destroy what they had.

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**L'Espoir Faux**

_Chapitre Un: Presque_

A fanfiction by May

Disclaimer: I do not own Inuyasha.

_For Wendy_

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_Lipstick._That slight tinge of pigment was a stark contrast against the pale white of his shirt. The colour, such a divine and outrageous hue, a shade so rich, vibrant, yet unsettling. It was one she had never worn.

She was kissing him as he returned from work. Always the same kiss; one that said 'welcome home' and 'I miss you'. Today it was different. It had been different for a long time. The metamorphosis had been so gradual that she could not have noticed until it was too late.

"How are you?" she asked, trailing her fingers down his collar and tracing the hard plastic of the buttons, her fingertips passing over the splashes of red amongst the white.

"A bit tired, otherwise fine." His smile rained down at her, so sincere, so warm, so glaringly deceitful. She caressed the rouged patches of his clothing again, willing him to acknowledge, to address it.

_Where did these come from Miroku? Can you please explain?_

Instead, he covered her hands with his and moved them away. "You should go to sleep now, it's late."

"I know it's late." She offered him a smile of her own; one that showed the weariness of waiting. "Where were you?"

He was moving further, further away. She reached for him, tried to pull him back, but found herself unable to hold on.

"They had extra work for me again." The truth was so simple spilling from his mouth in pure, unadulterated lies. He turned around and shrugged his coat off, brushing the remnants of fallen snow from his shoulders.

"Again?" she hoped the falter would alert him. This was a signal. A crystal clear, loudly screaming signal. He brushed it away with the snow, melting rapidly under the heat.

"They're paying me overtime. You know we need the money."

_Don't try and turn this on me. Whatever happened to your promises?_ "I understand that, but still, Miroku, I wish you'd come home earlier. I've been saying this for a long time now."

Leaning down, he kissed her again, snaking his hands around her waist. "I'm sorry, I'll get home at a proper hour next time." _Next time. _He cupped her cheek with one hand. "Don't worry about me. Concentrate on school."

He left her like that, standing in front of the door and touching where he had last been touching, and wondering why her skin was so cold, why were his lips so stiff. He had made a mistake in coming too close. She could smell the perfume.

As with the lipstick on his shirt, it was not hers.

--

_Both sides of the equation must be balanced --_

An interruption. The pager was vibrating.

It was sitting on the counter, moving along the surface as it received a call.

Looking up from her books, she found her eyes narrowing and something in the pit of her stomach contorting in throes. It did not cease.

Curiousity and a deeply seated dread became her as she snatched up the device, reading the electronic shapes forming numbers alight against a neon green backdrop.

Her gaze moved to the phone, lying innocently nestled in a corner next to the door. It travelled back to the number, reluctantly.

The pager -- his pager -- clattered back to the wooden surface as it abruptly fell from her hands as a rock of smouldering coal.

The formulas swam before her eyes, the numbers refusing to form an equation. Each side refused to balance. Leaning back, she flung her pencil forward, and it bounced off a framed picture of herself and him, from so long ago, she couldn't remember when.

She couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd wanted to take her somewhere.

Just above it was the clock, the hour hand pointed at two and the minute hand at six.

_Concentrate on school_, he said._ Concentrate_.

The ticking would soon drive her insane.

_For every action, there is an equal, and opposite, reaction._

--

That night he sidled into bed with her, smelling of cheap alcohol, sharp, cold winds, and things she could not pinpoint. Foreign things; new, and different.

She was facing away, awake. Waiting for him to come home.

Rolling over, she gathered her resolve and reached for him. "Sango," he said in groggy surprise. "Why are you still awake?"

Her shaking fingers pulled at his collar, since he had not changed. He shifted. "What are you doing?" he questioned with his eyes half-closed, or were they? She couldn't tell in the dark.

"Miroku, I -- "

"You have class tomorrow." And with that statement, he had drifted away even further.

She rolled away from him again, her ears full of the faint sounds of the world beyond the window, suddenly so loud.

Was it guilt that held him back? No. It was never guilt. It was never him.

Perhaps it burned when she touched him.

--

The phone was ringing. Maybe he was calling in advance to let her know he would be late. After all, there was a first time for everything.

"Hello?" she greeted cheerily, a tinge of nervousness creeping into her voice as she wound the cord around her finger.

"Hi, may I speak to Miroku please?"

The world froze. It froze and turned shades of blue and black, before fading to colourless.

_Don't over think this_.

"He's not at home right now. He's at work."

The voice on the other end paused, maybe in realization.

"Silly me!" she laughed abruptly. "I thought you were the secretary."

Sango stiffened. "I suppose I am. I'll take a message."

"I am so sorry for disturbing you at home," she apologized. "I thought he had given me his office number. But would you mind asking him to return my call?"

"Of course not," Sango said acidly. She resisted the urge to snap the pen in her hand in half. "Number?"

The girl recited it, and Sango wrote it down obediently, in large numbers, circling them multiple times.

"I really appreciate it," the voice sang from the receiver. "I haven't seen him for a few days."

"No problem," Sango replied with mock sweetness. "I'll be sure to tell him."

For a few days? "A few days" did not add up to the time before Sango and Miroku had gotten together. "A few days" was recent. "A few days" where she had been left dreaming alone.

--

Such a simple phrase. Simple words. A simple meaning.

" 'I am so sorry for disturbing you at home, but would you mind asking him to return my call?' "

A simple phrase, hanging between them in dead air.

"Well," she continued in her biting tone. "Don't you want the number?"

He was grimacing, and she hoped he was in pain as well. She hoped, with all that she had left to feel, that he was in the worst pain possible.

"It was -- "

"Sango, please."

Good. It had better pain him to speak right now.

"Please what? Please give you the number? Please forget women I don't know are calling me and asking for you, asking for you to see them?"

Heaven knew it was pain beyond belief.

"I'm sorry Miroku," she snapped through a throat that was rapidly growing coarse, "I can't do that."

He stood there stunned, staring and trying to formulate some sort of response.

"I don't know what the worst part was, her asking if I was your secretary," her lip curled as though she had eaten something sour. "Or the fact that I said I was."

He moved, and she immediately scanned the room for something to pick up. She hoisted her half-full bag of textbooks into her arms. "Don't come near me."

"Sango, listen to me - "

Her eyes blazed with a fire he had never seen before. Her hands and shoulders trembled, yet her feet were planted and her legs were still with restraint.

"What will you tell me Miroku? What will you use today?" Her voice took on a deeper, mocking and haughty tone. " 'The women practically throw themselves at me, I can't help it.' "

She held her bag with one hand, using the other to emphasize her portrayal of him. " 'Sure she was pretty, but not as pretty as you,' " she gestured wildly, pointing to him and grinning.

How could a smiling Sango be so full of disdain? As she imitated him, somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered if the way he had said those things to her hurt like this.

Then she was frowning again, her well drawn caricature forgotten. "Or maybe, you'll say that it was a late night."

The books fell out of her bag as she dropped it with a dull thud. " 'It was a late night, Sango, a fucking late night.' "

She took him in from his feet to his dejected, forlorn face. "I guess you weren't lying, this time. You were fucking something."

"Sango," he lunged forward and grabbed her shoulders. "I can explain."

"Then you don't deny it." Wrenching herself out of his grasp, she held her hands in front of her in a defensive stance. "Touch me again and I'll call the police."

His mouth opened, but that was as far as it got.

A smirk lined her mouth in new found malice, fortified with bitterness. "Explain then, I have all the time in the world. I always had all the time in the world to listen to your excuses."

He recovered. "You always assume the worst of me Sango. Why is that? Why is it that never once in our relationship, you never had enough confidence that I would do something right, that I would do something for you? You acted like I didn't give a shit about you and was out to deliberately hurt you!"

She flinched. "You've done nothing to disprove those statements."

"Neither have you," he said stiffly. "I tried. One can only try so hard. And maybe in the beginning, maybe halfway through, I tried to show you that I was devoted, I cared for you so much, but you insisted to yourself that I didn't." His eyes hardened, becoming brittle.

"If you don't _let_ someone love you then no one _can_ love you."

Her blood began to smoulder, burning her from the inside out. An incendiary glance. "Do you love me?"

He didn't stop to think. "I always did. I loved you even though you refuse to acknowledge it."

"So then," she whispered. "Why?"

Looking away, and at the wall behind her, through the window where snow fell unceasing, he knew what to say, but didn't.

"Miroku," she said incredulously. "Do you even care about what you've done? What you've done to us? If you loved me, you would never --"

"No." His mouth was set in a thin line. "Do you?"

"_I _wasn't the one who fucked around!" she nearly screamed.

"Then you openly admit that you would refuse me?" he questioned. "That we were living together, that we were getting married one day, but still acted like a pair of teenagers?"

Her expression crumbled. "Shut up. Just shut up!"

"Is this all about my fucking _age_ now Miroku?" Sango demanded in disbelief. "I lived through the deaths of my entire family_ and then some_. I think that would at least age me a bit! You are the same! _We_ are the same in that sense! You -- you understood . . . "

She pressed a hand to her chest, her mind reeling, realizing the errors of her words. If they were so similar, they wouldn't be falling apart at the seams.

"Hit me."

Her tightly bound fists loosened; he had caught her by surprise. "What?"

"Sango, I want you to hit me."

She moved farther away, closer towards the door.

"Hit me, damn it! Now!"

He took a step closer, spreading his arms as if to accentuate his openness to attack. As if to say, _I hurt you, now you hurt me_.

"Do it, do what you know you want to do!" he continued to challenge her, almost taunt. Then his voice began to sound strained.

"I'm begging you Sango, hit me, choke me, render me unconscious, just -- don't do this to us."

_Just give me punishment._

"That's rich, Miroku. That's fucking hilarious. Don't do this to us? You should have told yourself that a few thousand times.

Maybe now he was feeling that pain. Maybe now it was striking him through the heart repeatedly.

"You want to hurt me. I can see it," he said grimly. Yes, he felt that pain. Then there was no need for her to physically attack him. Although, if she did, she could finally give him what he was asking for.

"You think that will make it better?" Sango barely spoke. "I am filled with so much pain, such anger, that if I were able to channel a single sliver of it through one slap, you would die. It is the work of some unworldly power above that I can even speak."

That perturbed him, yet he didn't find it surprising. Her voice began to rise and lower in volume erratically, and she fought to keep it level.

"She is young, naive Sango, three years his junior. A stupid orphan all alone in the world, too stubborn and honourable for her own good. She won't know that I play her for a fool and fuck around behind her back; she won't know that I secretly feel sympathy for her and pity her like no other. She won't know that my feelings are a lie. She doesn't know yet. She is nothing but a whelp, too young to have experienced anything like it."

His head jerked from side to side. "That's not true," he managed roughly, his voice an octave too deep. _I have to stop her_. "You know how I feel."

"And just like if I hit you; if you say that, it won't make it better, because I don't, I never knew," she whispered. "If I walked into the bedroom and lay there naked for you right now, it wouldn't fix that. It wouldn't make me believe you."

Her bitter laugh returned. "Or would it? What do you want from me Miroku? Would that have fixed everything? Was everything I tried to do not enough?"

Picking up the phone, she cradled it to her ear as she methodically tapped the number keys. He ran up beside her, pulling it away by the cord and crushing her against the wall, kissing her. "No," he said against her lips.

"It wasn't enough then. I would never be enough. You're right, I haven't experienced anything like this before." Her tone was ice. "I was stupid to even think, that this could be bliss in love."

She crossed the space between herself and her coat and threw it on, winding a scarf so tightly around her neck that her breaths came even shorter.

"There is only so much."

She didn't close the door behind her, choosing to let a cold breeze filter past her and onto him.

Her words have been mostly products of conniption, but she did not regret anything. She knew she had taken it too far, and she was glad.

She stopped where the concrete became frosted grass, and watched the snow blow past her in flurries. Her hands numbed from the chill. Maybe her tears would freeze too, because once they spilled, they wouldn't cease.

But if the cold outside was biting, she couldn't tell.


	2. Teardrops Lie

**----------------------------------------------**

**L'Espoir Faux**

_Chapitre Deux: Les Larmes Mentissent_

A fanfiction by May 

Previous disclaimers apply. 

_Pour Wendy_

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"I feel stupid," she said aloud as the swing she sat on jerked back and forth awkwardly. The tips of her shoes made small indentations in the snow. "So stupid." 

Bending down, she scooped a palm full of snow into her gloved hands. She observed the crystalline shapes, light, fluffy and cold. No two were the same. 

Blowing did not scatter them. They had gathered the heat from her hands and had begun to melt together. Instead, she tossed them upwards, feeling them fall upon her hair, her eyelids, and her lips, in icy pinpricks. 

"It's late, you should come inside . . . come home." 

He was up to his ankles in snow and she was sure his socks were merrily absorbing the water. "You should go back inside, Miroku." She sounded dead. Now that the anger was gone, what else would be left? "I'm enjoying the cold." 

His mouth was set in a grim line as he ignored the distance between them. "Sango, it's late, its dark, I don't want you to get - " 

"Hurt?" she supplied. "I think I've reached my limit on hurt." 

Standing beside her, he bent down and took her hands. "You're shivering. You're cold." 

"I don't feel it. I don't feel anything." 

Catching a snowflake on her fingertip, she let it melt away onto her skin. "You know when you're cranking a Jack In The Box? With each turn, you worry it will pop out and scare the living daylights out of you. Yet, you keep on cranking, trying to press your luck, if you can get one more turn out of that handle free." 

She pushed his hands away. "Final turn." 

"Sango, come with me. I'll worry about you." 

"If you had ever worried about me before, for the right reasons, there would be no reason for us to be like this." 

"And who says I didn't? You?" 

Her lips tightened. 

"Because things like this don't just _happen_, Sango. I don't just wake up one morning and decide to take a risk on something real. I worried about you, about us, and you never did let yourself see it." 

"You do a great job of caring then. Thank you so much for all your overwhelming care," she sniped sarcastically. 

When she spoke like that, it seemed to freeze him in an even more effective manner than the cold air did; he was still, silent -- ice. 

"What you think does not become fact." 

Compelled, she turned slightly towards him, standing ankle deep in the snow. 

"I'll give you some things to think about," she challenged. "You lied, cheated, and went behind my back -- for months." 

"You suspected me, and you did nothing." He stared at her. "I know you did. You knew, and you didn't confront me until it had gone too far." 

"A real man wouldn't have done that _at all_!" she snapped. "If I came first --" 

"But did I?" he interrupted smoothly. "Did I come first, Sango?" 

She grit her teeth, and for the first time since stepping into the cold, her breaths came quick and harsh. "Don't tell me you'll actually -- that's pathetic, even for you." 

"Well?" the snow crunched as he stepped closer. 

She unknowingly jerked backwards as he approached. "Don't bring him into this! He's _dead_ for Heaven's sake!" 

"But he was always alive, for you, Sango," Miroku said quietly. "He was always alive, for weeks, months -- he was still living, still breathing, but--" his eyes clouded inauspiciously. "The day he died was like a dream for you." 

"What are you talking about?" she sputtered. "I know he's dead! My brother is dead, Miroku. That much is obvious." 

"You knew he was dying," he began, stepping away from the swings to sit at the bottom of a slide. "That he had only a few more weeks." 

She dropped her chin and narrowed her eyes, a tiny prickle of fear shooting up her spine. 

"But, there was a slight -- a very slight -- chance that he could be saved, right?" he looked up at her, resting his chin in his palm. 

"No," she whispered. "No." 

"But that little experiment, that developmental drug, did not come cheap, I believe." 

Her bottom lip red from being bitten, she tried to glare at him, but it was received as a sort of cross between looking like she was going to break down and an expression of great pain. 

"You could have asked me; we could have worked something out, Sango. Even if there was a what, less than ten percent chance? If it were like begging for a miracle? You could have asked me and we could have worked something out." 

He stood up heavily, brushing snow off his back and standing before her. "And what did you say when you left that day, Sango? _What did you _say?" 

"You have work soon," she whispered, as he mouthed the words along with her. "Go back to sleep, and I'll see you tonight." 

"I _think_, " he said emotionlessly. "That you didn't trust me. I think that you believed me selfish. I think that a part of you always doubted. I found that . . . disheartening." 

She looked at him, unable to say anything, snap at him, scream, even. She looked at him, and did nothing. 

"That was the same part of you that went to visit him without me, that took off to the cemetery, that made rash decisions without me. That would cry and refuse to tell me what was wrong. There is a thin, blurring line between independence and deliberate unawareness, which we both crossed -- willingly." 

"So I guess you 'shopped around,' huh?" she found herself asking, in order to accuse him and quell her own guilt. "Sango too antiquated for you? Found someone who wants what you want? Who wants to have your children?" 

It was his turn to be silent. 

"You didn't want a self-sufficient woman, did you? You wanted someone who would get bloated and pregnant by you, have many of your children and live in your fantasy land." 

"That someone was you," the words were as cold as stone. 

She slouched. "You aren't ready for children. The way it is, _we_ are still children, damn it. Look at us, putting ourselves through all sorts of grief; coming up with ways to give one another pain? How raise another when we can't take care of ourselves?" she shot at him, her eyes penetrating. 

"Your fantasy land was more like a drug hallucination, sorry to say," she continued. "Because children cost money, which we lack. Because children need to be loved and nurtured and disciplined. Because children need parents that love each other enough to bring them into this world." She looked squarely into his eyes. "No child deserves to be brought into a world coated with plastic emotions." 

"No person deserves to dwell in a past happiness. No man needs to be compared to something he can't fulfil," he said to the air. "No two people with weaknesses so vulnerable to exploit, or loyalties so easy to disregard, should force themselves to love each other." 

"And," she whispered, her voice delicately spun glass. "No two people, should claim love between them, when they don't even know what it is." 

The chains from which the swing hung rattled as he gripped them, her slouched form continuing to be mesmerized by melting snowflakes. 

"Sango," he let the remnants of her name melt with the snow upon her palms. 

It hurt to leave her there. 

But even if he remained, they would still truly be alone; two figures of tainted glass surrounded by innocence. 

-- 

She was taken for granted and look where that got them. 

So what if she was younger than he was? It was not by much, and she had a sweet, yet rugged, edge to her that he found enticing. But the mystery she left to be uncovered he was too lazy to decipher. 

And so he fell back onto old habits. 

Old habits die hard. 

It wasn't as though he had grown disenchanted with her. She was beautiful, different; where others were smooth she was scarred, where others were sensitive she had developed a second skin. She was a girl who had lived life in extremes, and he knew that. 

So why couldn't he accept her as she was? 

The questions nearly killed him. On one side, there was Sango, teaching him things about human spirit, unbreakable shields and impermeable fragility. 

On the other were his vices, his tempting, sensuous, tantalizing vices, and everything Sango was not. He fell to them. They brought him to his knees. 

He was shivering as he came through the door, nearly dropping his coat as he brushed stray snowflakes from his shoulders. 

The cold had followed him inside, reaching his very marrow and stiffening his joints. He sprawled on the couch and tried vainly to become warm again. All of Sango's things were still neatly stacked on the table, ready for her to leave for class tomorrow morning. 

Coughing, he contemplated why his body wouldn't retain any heat. 

Perhaps the breakdown of his body was coming full force with the breakdown of his mind. Still, he would stubbornly cling to his pride, like he was sure she was doing right now, sitting in the cold and unable to feel it. 

He thought about what he was, what she was, and what they weren't, together. 

What they were, what they could have been, what they should have been, if they weren't so flawed. 

What he couldn't do, what he shouldn't do, and what Sango would not do. 

It was too little too soon. 

Because everyone was flawed. Some in more ways than one. 

-- 

As soon as he had left, she had entered. 

Working quickly, she snatched up what she could, the spontaneity of the entire action dictating what she did; what she chose to bring. 

She hadn't really wanted to return at all; not for a while, or until she absolutely had to. However, luxury and necessity ran their course, and she knew she would have to work fast. 

For being surrounded by that false dream, that frosted fantasy, that plastic castle of theirs, and remembering all their dreams . . . it was unbearable. It was being without oxygen. 

She had to get out, back to air, back to clarity -- reality. 

Upon making her exit, locking the doors and running outside into the courtyards, she collided with something. The weight of her bag dragged her down onto her bottom in the light layer of snow. 

"I'm so sorry there," the voice wafted down to her in rich, musical tones. A hand was offered to Sango, which she accepted. 

From the second she had seen her rounded, white tipped fingernails, the silver bracelet floating about her wrist, she had been filled with a sense of dread. 

From the moment she had clasped her hand, she noticed the contrast of smooth and pale against rough and dry; of mediocre to superior. 

Her eyes were a startling jade. The same jade that hung around her neck on a pendant. An average shaped nose, long dark eyelashes; hair with endless dark facets of colour, blowing about her high cheekbones as she smiled. Her lips, a daring red. 

"Could you help me out?" 

Even her voice was like the first chimes of midnight, reminiscent of the reminder that one should remember where they were -- what they were doing. 

"Of course." She felt so plain next to her. A potato next to a pineapple. Which was more likely to be seen? Which was more exotic, more exciting? 

"I'm looking for this address." 

Sango took the little piece of paper in her hands, staring. The numbers, the letters, oh so familiar. She knew those numbers -- she had memorized them the first day she had arrived at that address. 

She placed the paper back into the woman's hands stiffly. Yes, she was a woman, tall, alluring, attractive and exuding grace. Sango was merely a girl. 

"This building right here behind me, stairs to second floor, first door on your left." _Politeness is an important part of your manners, Sango. Every little girl has proper manners._ She punctuated her sentence with an endearing smile. 

"You are quite a pretty girl," the woman remarked. Of course. A pretty girl, in her party dress, patent leather shoes, and holding her teacup, clutching her teddy bear to her chest. "Thank you for your help." The return smile blew Sango's half hearted attempt completely out of the water. 

"You're welcome." A small bow, low enough to show respect, and she turned, her hair loose and floating behind her. Her footsteps staggered, her breath froze into the air as she exhaled, and she slouched with the weight of her bag. 

The way she carried herself, the charisma and charm oozing from that woman, was what she could never be. 

A tiny, tiny, voice squeaked, and asked her if she believed that much was true. 

_Yes_, she told it._ This is all so real_. 


	3. Teach Me the Ways of Hurt

(11/22/04)

**A/N: **Messed up sentences care of Quick edit now eating my dashes and hyphens. That will also explain the ugly (&)'s in their place. Thank you very much you _lovely_ website you. I have phases and this is not a good one.

(&)

(&)

(&)

**L'Espoir Faux **

_Chapitre Trois: Enseignez-Moi les Manières de Peiné_

A fanfiction by May

Previous disclaimers apply.

_Pour Wendy _

(&)

(&)

(&)

He pulled his gloves over his hands with unnecessary force.

In truth, he was inwardly seething. Sango had been back here, trampling over their past and crushing the remains of their future.

A few second hand textbooks, clothes and her coat, and she had vanished.

The ghost of her roamed through their little space, trailing delicate fingers across the pictures, the bed sheets, his body as he lay there alone, or with someone who couldn't take her place.

At those times he felt slightly sickened, and unable to find sleep, no matter how long he chased it for. It always found a way to evade him; the bliss in unconsciousness.

Even then he would dream, of lying alongside a river with his arms chained behind his back. Dust settled over the ground around him, and in the distance, he could smell the smoke of something burning, causing his eyes to water.

Then he awoke in a cold sweat, and whoever was beside him would offer their practised comfort. And her ghost remained, watching him, creeping across his body and chilling him to the core with guilt.

He was left with nothing but a strange sense of emptiness, that covered him like a blanket he wrapped around himself.

Outside the window, snow blanketed the city and the delicate flakes melted on eyelashes.

(&)

(&)(&)

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_The Snow Festival . . . _

"Come out with me tonight, Sango-chan!"

"I don't feel like it this year," Sango replied with a weak smile. "I'll have to take a rain check for next."

Her arm was nearly torn off her shoulders as her friend tugged on it errantly.

_Snow is purity. Until someone steps in it. _

"We always go! You're going to ruin the tradition!" Kagome exclaimed, still trying to pull her to her feet within her room.

"Since when was it a tradition?"

_They only went when it was convenient that's all._

The Snow Festival was held every year in early February. Beautiful sculptures crafted from ice and snow filled the park, bringing depictions of fantasy, imagination and an alternate reality to life. Transparent and frosted, cold and enchanting. At night, the statues would be lighted and the atmosphere was one of warm romance and kinship within an chilly enclosure.

Sango went every year since she had been comfortable enough on her own to revel in leisure time. She enjoyed marvelling at the craft of the artists, coupled with spending time with loved ones.

Every evening she spent walking away from the statues, she knew that come sun and warmth, they would be nothing more but puddles.

"Please, Sango-chan?" her friend was now begging. "I missed it last year, remember? Please, just come and have some fun. You need it."

Yes, Kagome missed it last year. Sango had gone with him in her absence.

With an uncanny burst of strength, Kagome successfully pulled Sango to her feet and was now circling her with a critical eye.

"It will be cold. Put on another sweater, and then your coat." She topped it off by rewrapping her scarf loosely around her neck.

"Ready?"

Sango gave her a weak smile in defeat.

_Too late; might as well give up._

"As I'll ever be."

_Why fight it?_

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Fairy lights sifted through the carved blocks of ice as Kagome and Sango meandered through the paths, avoiding tourists, couples, and visitors to the festival. Stands lined the streets, merchants and potential buyers haggling for souvenirs.

"Look at that one!" Kagome exclaimed. She blew onto her mittened hands, rubbing them together, then pointing to the object of her awe.

"It's beautiful," Sango agreed truthfully. An ice mermaid on a rock, pensively staring out onto the sea of snow around her. Coloured lights beneath the base of ice reflected in a shimmering glow over the smooth and chiselled form.

"Isn't it?" A third voice fell upon her ears. Slowly, Sango turned.

White teeth so resplendent that they put the snow to shame peeked out from beneath cherry lips. "I knew that was you," she grinned, bowing, a steaming cup of coffee in her hands. "The sweet girl from yesterday."

Sango ignored Kagome's curious look. "I remember you," she said in forced politeness. Her cold, bare hands met the woman's suede gloved one in a handshake.

"It's funny how people meet one another sometimes."

"Are you enjoying the festival "

"Sango," she provided. Somehow, she felt as though she should know her as Sango. Only Sango. "And I am, I usually go every year since I've lived here. It's quite a sight, isn't it?"

The woman repeated her Sango's name, slowly. "Sango . . . that is, _Shen_, in my language. Coral, right?" She tilted her head, a few fibres of hair falling in front of her eyes.

Sango nodded in the affirmative. "Then you are - "

"Yu Zie," she told her, and smiled. Strange how only once Sango had heard the name had she begun to notice her Chinese accent. "I am here doing a bit of promotional work."

"Really," Sango's eyes focused on the string of lanterns just above Yu Zie's head. "You speak our language very well."

"I've been studying it, and why not practice while I'm in the country?" Her laughter rippled over them in soft, resplendent chimes.

"Forgive me for asking, but what kind of promotional work are you here for?" Kagome's interested voice sounded over Sango's shoulder.

"Photos," Yu Zie said quickly, flushing. "Promotional photos."

Her curiousity piqued. "Like, modelling?" she asked, unable to contain an excited grin.

"I don't like to call it that, but . . . " she hesitated. "I guess you might."

Kagome was ecstatic. "Of course! You're so pretty!" she said in awe. "Can I have your autograph?"

Sango took a few steps to the side so that Kagome could closely examine every inch of the woman's perfect face. Shivering, she nudged her friend. "I'm going to see if I can buy something to eat at a stand," she said cheerily. "You don't mind, do you?" she asked them both.

"Not at all," her warm voice resounded. "We'll wait."

As soon as her back was to them, an unbecoming scowl painted Sango's lips. So this was her superior. A tall, exotic beauty with modelling prospects and an aurora of a smile. She held no resemblance, no similarities to Sango.

What perhaps angered her the most, was that she could find nothing to hate about this woman.

Was she wrong to say that that simply wasn't fair?

(&)

(&)(&)

(&)

The people around them seemed to disappear when they saw one another.

For him, there was an empty numbness that he was left with, and as she approached, cheeks rosy with the cold, something bubbled inside of him.

She was holding a paper cup of hot tea when she looked up, expecting to see Kagome and Yu Zie, standing beside the sculpture of a ruminating mermaid. Maybe Kagome would be chattering excitedly, maybe a friend from school might have come over to say hello. Not him, though. Not him.

Kagome whirled around quickly, black hair flying, while Yu Zie smiled pleasantly and Miroku stared.

"Sango-chan! You're . . . you're back."

Kagome didn't know what to do; no one knew what to do. She looked between Miroku and Sango furiously, contemplating politeness, surprise, giving Miroku his comeuppance on Sango's behalf . . . She was about to, but seeing the pain in his face as he saw her she could not bring herself to further hurt a friend.

There isn't always a black and white.

There is always a grey.

_Which side do I want to stand on?_

_Or do I want to wander where the shades bleed together?_

Coloured lights under ice. They wanted to escape, wanted to be free, wanted to know more than the cold that encased them. Like the mermaid, everything would melt away, and become part of a mass of liquid doomed to fall and rise in a cycle.

_Just say hello. Say hello._

"Hello, Sango," he said, sounding much more confident than she'd thought he would. _Always an actor the world is his stage._

He turned to perhaps "formally" introduce her to his new lady friend, it seemed.

"Oh, I've met Sango before," Yu Zie was chiming, smiling at her. "She's such a sweetheart. She's so cute!"

Sango's eyes darted from Miroku's hands to Yu Zie's earrings to Kagome's unsure posture.

Miroku smiled a very lucid smile. "That she is

She took a deep breath and he looked straight at her.

"She is a lot of things. Everything."

_He looked straight at her._

And in her head, his voice echoed words he didn't speak.

_To me._

"Everything."

_To me. _

Steam rose rapidly from the ground as the heated liquid dissolved in the snow, pouring out of a fallen cup.

(&)

(&)(&)

(&)

"Wait!"

He was calling her, calling her as she fitted herself around the throng of spectators with ease. Miroku was not so graceful with his larger frame, bumping shoulders with some and hurriedly apologizing.

"Excuse me, you dropped this!" another man yelled from behind. She paid him no heed. All she wanted was a nice, pregnant distance between them where she could cultivate alone. Air left her in vapourous white puffs, hugging against her body as they dissipated into the air.

"Don't follow me," she snapped sharply as she felt him gaining ground on her. Panic gave way to caution as her feet skidded slightly in the snow.

They were now along the outskirts of the park where few people were scattered, mostly couples and newlyweds with young children, looking to take comfort in seclusion. Now they were joined by the lonely.

The fools.

She regarded him with eyes as cold as the air around them.

"What's wrong with us?" she said angrily. "What are we _doing_?"

Did he know? She didn't want to find out. Perhaps it was a rhetorical question in the sense that _yes, something is wrong with us _and _we have no idea what we are doing. _Not a clue.

_Give him a question. Give him the question of what to do next. And wait for his answer. _

The wind on tree branches muted. The snow still fell softly onto every surface of the earth. Each flake, floating solitary on it's own path, chosen by the wind.

"What are we now, Miroku? What are we, and what do you want to be?"

_This is where it ends._

_If it ends._

Everything has to come to an end.


	4. Fairy Tales

A/N: Here we are, the bitter end. I wrote this because it can happen in any relationship. People are not perfect, and there is no such thing as a perfect relationship, perfect anything. I wanted to write about M/S as people and not just a way for me to stick them into my silly fun world (at least this time). There is life after love, my dears. byeloveyou!

Disclaimer: I do not own Inuyasha, even though he does not appear in this story at all. Hee.

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**L'Espoir Faux **

_Chapitre Quatre: Conte de Fées_

A fanfiction by May

Previous disclaimers apply.

_Pour Wendy _

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Somewhere inside was a deep satisfaction within himself.

In his subconscious, he had wanted to call to attention the fact that there was something missing; there was something more he needed.

Here she was, standing before him and _asking_ him, actually _asking_ him what he wanted. As unsteady as she was, he promised her a relationship that was her speed. He did this for her.

She acknowledged him, but at what price?

"Sango, right now we are nothing. But I want, and I've always wanted you."

"We don't always get what we want." Her voice cracked, and he was losing her. It was as though she was a fading signal, and he desperately twisted the tuner to catch the remnants of her song.

She rubbed her hands together furiously, wondering where her gloves were.

"Sango, are you - "

"I'm not. I'm not fine, I'm not okay. And if you ever, ever once, felt that you loved me, you wouldn't be either."

He chanced another step. "I do love you."

She hugged herself. "And as much as it pains me to admit it, I love you. I can't give you up as easily as you did me. I'm not as desperate to forget you as you are me."

"That's not true," he said, shaking his head. "I'm not ready to give up."

She turned her head, the soft glow of coloured lights moving across the contours of her face. "Then do I have to ask why?"

He came so close that she felt her back press against something solid, and looking up, her eyes met with the bare branches of trees laced with shimmering lights and lanterns. A snowflake fell upon her eyelids. A blizzard was on the way.

"Do you forgive me?" he whispered, holding each of her hands and trying to bring warmth to them.

When she didn't answer, he persisted. "Everything is fine, we're fine. You still need me, we're still together, one day we'll be married and it will be the happiest day of our lives." He reached up to stroke her hair. "Just like you wished for, just what you've always wanted."

"Don't play with my head like this." She grabbed his wrist.

"Sango, my Sango. I made a mistake. I know that. Please, this is killing the both of us. Please."

His voice dipped lower as he angled his face. "I'm sorry."

Her eyes widened, and a sickening crack sounded in the night.

He took a few stunned steps backward, holding his cheek.

" 'I'm sorry?' That's the best you can do?" she exploded, not caring who was around them. "Well, fuck Miroku! That's fucking great! Because two words won't change anything! Two words that you can only offer now!"

She rose to her full height, ablaze and fire alight in her eyes. "Then I'd prefer you don't. Don't fucking apologize, because it means nothing. It never meant anything!"

"Sango . . . "

"What do you want me to say? To do? What do you expect? I tried, I devoted my whole fucking life to you! I'm trying to finish school, to get a real job so I can do my part. So that one day, I could pay you back and we could have that wedding we'd always dreamed of . . . or maybe it was just me."

She smiled at him bitterly. "It was just me, wasn't it? I was stupid."

"Sango, that's not true," he said firmly.

"Wake up, Miroku! This is not some fucking dream world where you can compromise my trust and expect everything to be rainbows and sunshine once again. I . . . I did nothing. The women - and I - I did nothing. If there were problems, I just wanted you to tell me, to love me enough that you could tell me. Not make-believe."

Tears fell from her eyes along with the words from her lips, joining the chaos and the mess he had created around them. He was angry, angry at himself for doing this to her and angry at her for not seeing how he felt.

"You looked at me in my eyes, you looked in my fucking eyes, and lied straight to my face. And I overlooked - I even believed you - I believed you because I loved you, I loved you more than life." She pronounced every word slowly, letting them echo between them as they pierced his heart.

"And if this was all about sex, Miroku. Maybe, just maybe we could have done something about that. Help me understand. "

"Sango, that wasn't everything!" His tone elevated in frustration.

"Then what was it, Miroku?" She stepped towards him, narrowing her eyes, angrily swiping tears from the corners. "You want freedom? You want to be your own man again?"

The sky was so very empty, as if they had scared the stars away.

She held out still hands, willing him to see the precious stone in her palms. A ring that symbolized his promise, and would unlock the chains that bound him to her forever.

"Here. Take it. Take it and leave."

She dropped it at his feet.

Freedom swept over his body and weighted him down to the ground.

"Don't." A final plea, a final whisper.

She moved out of his reach.

"I can't handle anymore. I am broken."

She fled, her form disappearing amongst ice and snow, a silent night, which he surrounded himself with in solitude. Hope fled with her.

The night, so very silent.

The sky, so low it could crush him.


End file.
